My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here:
Then why should I murmur when trials are near?
Be hushed, my spirit, the worst that can come
But shortens the journey and hastens me home.

‘Tis not for me here to be seeking my bliss,
Nor building my hopes in a region like this;
I look for a city which hands have not piled,
I pant for a country by sin undefiled.

The thorn and the thistle around me may grow-
I would not e’en tarry ‘midst roses below;
I ask not a portion, I seek not a rest,
Save that which awaits me of Jesus’ kind breast.

Though trial and danger my progress oppose,
They only make heaven more sweet at the close:
Come joy or come sorrow, whate’er may befall,
A home with my God will make up for it all.